


the god with achievemephobia

by tal_5



Category: Sanders Sides (Web Series)
Genre: Angst, Angst and Feels, Gen, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Minor Character Death, References to Depression, Remus is mentioned, Swearing, be careful y'all
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-04
Updated: 2019-09-04
Packaged: 2020-10-06 21:28:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 759
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20513762
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tal_5/pseuds/tal_5
Summary: Roman truly wonders when this 'thing' will finally break him.





	the god with achievemephobia

As he gazes over the monolithic landscape lying dormant in front of him, Roman wonders.

If he truly wanted to, he could pave himself a road with no battles, no hardships, and all the help and support he could ever want. He could create a story with a happy ending. There would be endless crowds of villagers or farmers or members of royalty or anyone he wanted, all watching his every movement with eyes filled to the brim with unadulterated adoration and almost overwhelming awe. They would cheer his name, cry in relief for those who’d been saved by his hand, kiss his fingertips and his cheeks and his knuckles for using every ounce of his energy to rescue them. He’d beam at his followers, gripping their hands in return and insisting that it was really no trouble at all, explaining that he would do absolutely anything to protect those in need. That would get him an even louder cheer.

Why doesn’t he do that, then? He can have anything he wants with just the flick of his wrist or the snap of his fingers. Well, not quite anything, but close enough. <strike>He should be more grateful for that at least, shouldn’t he?</strike>

But that’s just the problem, isn’t it? He could have all of the attention and the deserved affection of a million people, but he doesn’t want _them_. They aren’t real. Though, what counts as real in his Scape is somewhat difficult to define; everything he creates is alive. Their lungs breathe the exact same air as him, damson blood courses through their veins, they have their own opinions and personalities, but they can also disappear if he desires it. So, he supposes, he truly is a God.

He doesn’t really think of it like that, though.

Their eyes don’t light up when they’re babbling words of praise. It’s also incredibly difficult for him to pretend that they’re actually looking at him, rather than through him to the next creation standing on his other side repeating the cycle of hollow spirit all over again. He’ll choke on the oily paint drawing the smile on his face and bereave his love for his creations, reminiscing on a time where he’d find the fun in building an entire person and experiencing the life they desired to create for themselves. Sometimes, he even felt a sick sort of amusement of snuffing that life out before they got to do anything they wanted to. He’s always blamed Remus for that.

Those ‘people’— he uses that term lightly — could never compare to the real thing. Praise and affection from them is like embracing the lost soul of a loved one, empty and cold. No, he’ll always treasure the minimal admiration he receives from the other Sides. Including Thomas. Always including Thomas.

_“Without you at all I’m incomplete.”_

That could be true, really. But as he stares down at the purling water soaking his feet until his charcoal sweatpants are sodden with a heavy reminder of how disgustingly ordinary his world is, he remembers how he’s supposed to be the literal embodiment of creativity and yet, his imagination can’t conjure up more than a meadow and a stream. There’s nothing else around. He doesn’t really want anyone around right now. All that praise and affection he creates and dreams about with every ounce of energy he has? He doesn’t want it. Not right now.

It would just twist the nausea already in his stomach until—

He just can’t. His eyes sting and they have ached for so fucking long, but he knows they’ll remain that way until further notice. Or until he gets this whole thing under control. What that ‘thing’ is, he’s not quite sure, and he doesn’t know where to look for an answer. Not that he really wants one.

As a breath of wind combs through his hair, reminding him of the presence that never truly leaves, he inhales shakily and ignores how the trembling of his lungs only serves to increase the churning in his stomach. He can’t fight back though. He won’t. This sickness will one day overwhelm him and he’ll allow it to do so. He’ll lie there and give everything up, limp and cold. Every biting remark he’s tasted in the past, every insult that has flowed from his mind to his mouth, and every single failure hanging around his neck. They will all be redeemed when that day comes.

All of that praise and affection? It must wait.

It must wait until he deserves it.


End file.
